I met my sugar Daddy. His name is Benny.
Thursday, May 14th, 2009
This particular entry has very little to do with marriage. It may not even have a point. It’s just a story about an interesting incident from my life, one that I felt compelled to share.
If you are not into narcissistic belly button gazing, this is fair warning. Stop reading now.
First a little back story for those of you who are unfamiliar with my life: I am the family provider. My salary pays the bills and mortgage. Without my salary, we’d all be destitute.
This occasionally bothers me, prompting me to interrupt a conversation—perhaps one about whether or not sex is all a married man really needs to be happy—to say something like, “I don’t think it’s normal for a woman to be the bread winner. I think it goes against our genetic code. It’s too stressful.”
Everyone usually stares at me with a “You’re not going to go on this rant again are you?” expression. I ignore that and proceed to whine, “I just want someone to take care of me.”
Then I feel much better and the conversation goes back to whether or not men only need sex to be happy.
Which is exactly what happened the other night when I was talking with my friend Deb and a male bartender.
The next day I met a different friend for lunch about an hour south of where I live. After lunch, I was walking back to my car in the diner parking lot.
I noticed two men getting out of the car next to mine. One was all bent over. He was using a cane. The other was a little younger, but not by much. The younger one asked me for my take out container. I told him that he was welcome to it. Then he walked over to me.
He was one of those old men who is a hopeless flirt, in an endearing, funny way. The sad part is that he actually thinks he’s going to score.
Anyway, he put both of his hands over one of mine and said, “I really don’t want your lunch. You see, my friend and I are just going to lunch. That’s my friend right there. Him. Yes, he’s my friend. What I really want is to tell you something. This is not a come on. I’m not a dirty old man.”
Please note that whenever someone tells me that something is not true, I assume it is, indeed, true. For instance:
My dog doesn’t bite = My dog bites.
I’ve never cheated on my wife = I cheat all the time. Interested?
This isn’t a come on = Nothing would make me happier than for you to agree to have sex with me right here in my car, while My Friend with the Cane waits inside the restaurant or, even better, watches.
He went on, “You see, I’m really into … uh.”
I thought he was going to say “boobs,” so I planned my comeback as he searched his old man memory for the vocabulary word in question. As I did so, I noticed his cologne. It was overpowering. “Why do old men wear so much cologne anyway?” I wondered. “Now I’m going to smell like that!”
“Teeth. I notice teeth. And you have beautiful teeth. They just light up the place. I saw your smile and I just felt warm inside and had to come over and talk to you.”
I’ve been whitening my teeth. To date, my husband has not noticed. I decided to show the old man as many of my glorious teeth as I could.
“It’s Benny. I’m Benny.”
“Hi Benny. I’m Alisa. I’m flattered. You just made my day. I didn’t know I had nice teeth. Now I do.”
“You have great teeth.”
He continued, “Can you do me a favor? Can you take off your glasses?”
I did. At this point Mr. Man with Cane walked away, waving his arms in disgust, as if to say, “You are picking up yet another younger woman in the parking lot?! You are shameless! Just shameless!”
Benny stared at me. I began to feel self-conscious. Would he think I looked older without my sunglasses? Would he think my smile wasn’t quite as breath taking now that he could see my eyes?
He said, “You’re not wearing any makeup. That’s nice.”
I said, “Very observant.”
He said, “Are you Italian?”
“Or Jewish? Which is it?”
I laughed, mostly because I was thinking that I should ask him, “Are you a senior citizen? Or just a dirty old man? Which is it?”
I said, “Yes, I’m Jewish.”
He said, “Mazzeltov!”
I didn’t say it back because I’m only half Jewish, and a secular Jew at that. I don’t even know what Mazzeltov means. I had to Google it this morning just to figure out how to spell it.
He said, “My friend is Jewish. I’m Italian.”
Then he stared at me a lot longer, trying to figure out if Jewish was close enough to Italian for me to be considered girlfriend material.
Eventually he asked, “Are you one of us?”
Us? Us who?
“I mean, are you from around here?”
I said, “No.”
He said, “Oh, because I own a horse farm and, if you were from around here, I was going to invite you to my horse farm to go riding.”
Side Note #1: The last time I tried to ride a horse it was very painful and very ugly. I thought I was going to die. I will never ride a horse again. Horses do not like me.
Side Note #2: I picked up on the fact that he wanted me to know he was loaded.
He went on to say, “I used to own three pizza restaurants, but now I don’t do that anymore. Now I invent things.”
He told me about his latest invention, one that he patenting with The Jewish Man with the Cane, but I lost interest. It was some sort of medical device for broken arms.
I finally managed to extricate myself from Benny. I got in my car. As I drove away, I thanked the universe for sending me this gift. I said, “I wanted to be taken care of and you sent me a man who would have been happy to do just that. I’m sorry for returning this gift to you. I really am. I’m so thankful that you gave this to me, but I think I’d like to stick with the man I have, even if he’s not remotely loaded and even though he doesn’t own a horse farm. I really am happy with him, even if I complain about him every once in a while.”
I’m pretty sure the universe understood.
What’s the oddest pick up line you’ve ever heard? Leave a comment.
